


Seen

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, M/M, Mycroft is a Softie, POV Greg Lestrade, Protective Mycroft, Self-Esteem Issues, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22786612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg's had enough, and although sleeping all day and skivving off work isn't helping it's the best he can do right now. Nothing looks set to change until something changes.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 39
Kudos: 252





	Seen

At least he’d had the forethought to let work know he’d be taking some time off. Sally’d been giving him the concerned glances for a while, and on this particular day, Greg just knew he was done. Done with the pretending to be fine, with the fake smiles, the concentration on some poor bastard who’d died in some unfortunate manner in some back alley, somewhere.

So he’d brought Sally up to speed on all their cases, made sure to rinse out his coffee mug and collect the banana he’d never eaten earlier that week. Right after lunch, Greg packed up his things and ducked his head into his DCI’s office.

“A minute, boss?” he asked.

Lawrence looked up. The double take he did wasn’t good, but at least it worked in Greg’s favour. He knew he looked like shit.

“What is it, Greg?” For the abrupt words, Lawrence always made time to listen to his team.

“I’ll be gone next week,” Greg said bluntly. “Donovan’s up to speed, she’s capable.” _Could take over from me without too much trouble._ “I’ll get the med leave forms in before I go.”

He’d had them filled out for over a month with the exception of the dates. John told him months ago that he should take some time off and said he’d approve whatever Greg thought he needed. He also told Greg he should stop drinking and smoking and take up running again, not to mention start seeing the shrink at work.

One thing at a time.

When Lawrence nodded, his eyes probing but not asking what he was so clearly wondering, Greg stepped out, making his way home on autopilot. It was weird, doing this in the middle of the day. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d left work in the daylight with the intention of going home and staying there. A few times he’d raced home knowing this would be the last chance for a shower and a shave before it all hit the fan at work. If only that kind of preternatural understanding of the immediate future had extended to his wife and her propensity to sleep with whomever happened across her path.

Two months. It had been two months.

Greg had ducked home, knowing all the warrants he’d requested would come in later that day and he’d be lucky to get to bed before midnight. A quick shower, a shave and he’d be out of there. He was already mentally searching for clean pants when he heard the scrabble coming from the bedroom. Two years ago he’d have wished he had a weapon to confront the intruder. A year ago, he’d have wondered why his wife was at home in the middle of the day. That day, he froze, recognising the sound before he even really registered it. With a sigh he dropped his keys on the hall table, not bothering to hide his presence or linger in the hall.

“I’d get tested if I was you, mate,” he said conversationally as he entered the bedroom. The focus of his comments looked stricken then astonished as Greg moved around the room, collecting a complete set of clothes and apparently ignoring the naked man in bed with his naked wife. “She’s had at least half a dozen others this year and no offence but she barely knows their surnames.”

He turned to his wife, all the righteous anger he used to have burned away by now. “I’ll be home later, and I’ll be bringing a locksmith. Anything still in this flat will be mine. Take anything that doesn’t belong to you and I’ll press charges.” He drew a deep breath. “Get the fuck out, Amy.”

Greg turned, taking his clothes to the bathroom. He shaved, a sloppy job if he’d ever seen one, though better than he’d ever thought he could manage with such a shaking hand. Shrugging, he changed his clothes, not foolish enough to get naked while in the flat with two potentially very angry people. He didn’t look himself in the eye at all.

As he left, Amy spat something vicious at him but he didn’t even hear the words. He just looked right through her and with great satisfaction he saw her falter at his complete lack of interest in the argument. When she’d sat in silence for a moment he turned and left, not even bothering to say anything else. What was there to say, after so many months of lies?

When he returned that night, just this side of midnight, he’d called in a favour from Sherlock. It was a stretch, really, but he didn’t even really try to negotiate.

“Just send over someone that can re-key my locks,” Greg told him. “Right now. I’ll pay whatever they want, in cash. You know where I live.”

The locksmith was both younger and more female than he’d imagined a locksmith would be. He didn’t bother to ask for her qualifications. She was more likely to be a lockpick than a locksmith, but Greg simply didn’t care. As long as she could switch out his locks, it was fine with him. He’d done a quick sweep and as far as he could tell Amy had taken his threat seriously, clearing out her own things and leaving his.

“No charge,” the locksmith told him when she was done. “I owed Sherlock, now we’re even.”

Greg pressed a few hundred pounds into her hand anyway. “Keep it,” he said. “Cheap at the price.”

She shrugged, not willing to argue. “Right-o,” she said, tossing him his new keys.

Greg didn’t even know her name, or she his.

The interaction depressed him even more than he imagined it would.

+++

A week later tiny chunks of Greg’s energy and motivation had been chipped away until he was running on empty. John showed up at work unannounced and suggested a break; Greg pretended to smile at him and said enough of the right things to get him to leave. He’d chucked the forms in his drawer, seeing them every day until today was the day.

And now he was sat in his flat, sunlight streaming through the widow with nothing pressing to do, and entirely zero people who gave an actual fuck about him. With a sigh, Greg let himself slip sideways. He pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. No reason not to have a nap. He might as well.

When he woke, Greg blinked, looking around his flat. It was as it always had been, since Amy left at least. He hadn’t even bothered to fix up the gaps in the bookcase or on the mantle where she’d taken her ornaments from between the bowling trophy from the work ‘do a few years ago and his long-ago football awards. It didn’t matter, of course. Who was ever going to visit? The light was dim – evening, but not night. Toast was good enough for supper, and when he was done Greg barely bothered to drop his trousers on the floor before he crawled into bed.

The days immediately blurred into each other. Crap food, when he bothered to eat, a few beers a day, telly on all the time unless he was napping on the sofa. He couldn’t remember sleeping so much in his life. Nobody came around, and he hadn’t even taken his phone from the pocket of his overcoat, so anyone could have called. Not that Greg thought they would have. Work people aside, only Sherlock and John were ever on the other end of the line, and they were pretty much ‘work’ anyway. Sherlock wanted cases and John wanted Sherlock to have cases. If it wasn’t Greg it would be something else. He was a means to an end.

Some part of his brain was rallying against the negative talk, reminding him how often pretty women – and men, sometimes – made eyes at him when he used to stop into a bar after work. That was a long time ago, he reminded himself. Before Amy, certainly. Greg was nothing if not loyal, and when she wasn’t comfortable with him hanging out in bars on his own, he stopped. Even if he was only there for the music. Even if he just wanted one drink to wind down after work, he took their relationship seriously.

What a fucking joke that had been.

He’d done everything she’d asked, everything he could think of that might make her happy, and she’d still slept around. And not just around, but _around_. Greg knew of five and suspected more. He had no idea where she picked them up, not that it mattered. The fact she was letting it get that far sent the message loud and clear. Despite his best efforts, Greg simply wasn’t good enough. He remembered something a friend had said to him one late night. He’d found ‘the one’, he was confidently telling Greg.

“So she’s perfect, then,” Greg said with a grin.

“No,” he said, “but I love her anyway.”

“Right,” Greg said. “What’s she doing to get you to say that, then?”

To Greg’s surprise, the friend had gone quiet for a moment, and when he answered his voice was serious. “She sees me,” he said. “And she loves me anyway.”

_She loves me anyway._

At the time he’d shaken his head, but the exchange had stayed with him. It was years since the conversation, and while the friendship had waned Greg was pretty sure the couple in question was still together. Greg reflected on it now and then, the meaning shifting with his perspective. Right now, he couldn’t even believe such a relationship existed. He’d twisted himself into what he thought Amy wanted until he was almost unrecognisable. As he ate his oven chips right off the pan, Greg thought about the relationships he’d had over the years. Mostly women, one more serious one with a man, but he couldn’t remember a single one in which he’d been completely himself.

He’d been more into arthouse movies for Becky. Less into football for Sarah. More serious for Andrea. He’d quit smoking for Andy (unsuccessfully) and meat for Chloe (also unsuccessfully). He knew that people often picked up their partners interests a little; it was only considerate, wasn’t it, to understand a bit about what your partner likes?

As he remembered how he’d changed for his partners, Greg wondered how much they’d changed for him. Would he have asked that of them? Would they think he wanted something different?

His head whirled.

But that line…

_She sees me._

It hadn’t been until about a year ago he’d really understood.

It had been the shittest of shit days. Problems with a warrant followed by a suspect assaulting one of his officers as they absconded only to be rearrested after crashing a car and injuring a bunch of civilians. Greg’s boss was on his case about their clearance rate while still cutting the budget, and although he knew the pressure was coming from higher up, he’d still snapped and walked out on their meeting. He’d be eating humble pie tomorrow.

It was late and he was exhausted when he came in. Keys in the bowl, overcoat on the hook, five steps into the flat so Amy could see him from the sofa. It was surprising she was home, actually. He’d stood there, each breath feeling like an effort, waiting for her to notice him. To notice his slumped shoulders, the fake, half-hearted smile, the flat expression in his eyes.

“Hey babe,” she’d greeted him with false enthusiasm. “How was work?”

“Fine,” Greg answered automatically. His answer sounded flat to his ears, but she didn’t notice. A quick look up, barely meeting his eyes, and she returned to her nails.

“Dinner’s in the oven,” she told him. It was a nice gesture except that he was the one that had prepared the dinner in the first place; she didn’t thank him. She never did.

“While you’re up I’ll have a glass of wine.” This time her eyes met his. Greg waited several long slow heartbeats, but although she was looking right at him, she didn’t notice. She didn’t see him.

In the end he just nodded and poured her wine. Some kind of excuse, a quick shower and he tumbled into bed, wrapping his own arms around his torso, hoping to fool himself into thinking his girlfriend cared enough to notice his pain.

That was when the conversation came back to him and he realised what his friend meant. _She sees me._ A wry smile would have pulled at his mouth if he’d had the energy, but instead he fell asleep with the lingering thought that perhaps he should just get used to it. Things with Amy were okay, and that was enough if he didn’t think about it too much.

Deep down he wondered who would bother really looking at him. The second part of his friend’s quote came to him at this point, the wondrous tone of his voice as he said, _And she loves me anyway_. This part Greg was sure he’d never experience. Who would see him – broken, out of shape, a poor sleeper who drank too much, smoked too much and put too much into his work – and love him anyway? Hell, even someone seeing him and liking him seemed like a stretch at this point.

Not that anyone was looking.

The week off stretched out until Greg wasn’t entirely sure what day it actually was. Did it matter? He’d flat out lied to his boss, deliberately forgetting to lodge his paperwork, so they effectively didn’t know when he was going to come back. The flat rang silent, only the muted sounds from his neighbours breaking up the hours. Greg didn’t even really have to put the TV up that loud. He showered a couple of times, probably. Once especially to make a late night run down to get some food in, and some beer in, scurrying in and out as fast as possible. It was more exercise than he’d managed since he’d left work. Furthest he’d walked. First time out of the flat.

Vaguely, Greg wondered what would happen if he didn’t go back to work. Would they send someone around? He could imagine his team rolling their eyes at the task, drawing straws to see who would have to go and see if he’d died in his pants alone on his sofa. It was depressing, but not enough to make him call Donovan. She was the one most likely to come over, realistically. Of course that would be the obligation rather than anything else.

At some point Greg was woken by someone knocking at his door. He sat still, noticing how he drew in his arms and legs at the intrusion. Nobody called out, and he waited, barely breathing as they knocked again before leaving. It happened again later, though this time the person on the other side of the called through it.

“Greg, it’s John. I just want to know you’re okay. If you’re not going to answer the door can you text me?” He paused. “I don’t want to do this to you mate but if I haven’t heard from you by tomorrow I’m gonna have to get someone to come in and check you’re okay.”

Greg knew he meant ‘alive’ rather than ‘okay’. He waited until John was gone and retrieved his phone. It was dead, of course, and when he plugged it in he ignored the avalanche of notifications in favour of a very short message to John.

_I’m alive._

He turned it off immediately, not wanting to get into a conversation. John was clearly acting for Sherlock; the man must be getting snarky without something to do. Greg did feel a twinge of guilt, but Sherlock wasn’t his concern. Couldn’t be his concern right now. He had John, and whatever their relationship, Greg didn’t really care. To use the vernacular of that conversation he’d been thinking of lately, John saw Sherlock, and loved him anyway.

Lucky bastard.

With a sigh, Greg figured he might as well have another nap.

+++

It was a strange feeling. Greg woke up instantly, knowing someone was in the room, but the adrenalin rush was a flash before it died out. The fear never had a chance to take hold as his brain took in what he could see, smell and hear and came out with a single possibility.

A tall shape, familiar in its straight posture.

Cologne, light but expensive.

A carefully cleared throat in a familiar register.

_Mycroft Holmes._

After the tension drained out of him, Greg slumped back against the sofa. Of course Mycroft wouldn’t bother with anything as mundane as knocking. The light was only enough for Greg to make out Mycroft’s outline. There was no way he’d be able to see any expression, but Greg could picture it; the mildly disapproving look Greg had seen directed at Sherlock. A single raised eyebrow melding smoothly into narrowed eyes and a top lip that pulled into a barely discernible sneer. He knew it heralded far more disapproval than it appeared to, but Greg did not, to be blunt about it, give a shit.

Mycroft was here about his brother. That was why he came to see Greg.

Normally, this was the time Greg asked why he was there, or told him there wasn’t time, or something else that led seamlessly into their exchange about Sherlock. Today, Greg wasn’t playing his games.

Leaning over, he switched on the lamp, speaking before he looked over.

“Just fuck off, Mycroft.”

His timing was perfect. He caught the evolution of Mycroft’s face from his smoothly polite expression to a flash of surprise and something else he didn’t quite catch. There was no evidence of the disapproval he’d assumed he would see, though.

“Not your usual greeting.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet, all it needed to be in the stillness of Greg’s flat. He wondered briefly how long Mycroft had been standing watching him sleep.

Greg didn’t bother to respond. Instead he sighed and stood up, walking past Mycroft to the bathroom. He’d stay or he’d go, and Greg was never sure exactly what he did – if it was anything – that influenced Mycroft either way. Might as well relieve his bladder while Mycroft made up his mind. And he took his time. Maybe Mycroft would just go away.

When Greg emerged from the bathroom he was surprised to see Mycroft still present. He’d kind of hoped his blunt blasphemy would offend Mycroft, or at least give him the hint that he wasn’t interested in the unspoken dance they always did around each other. Instead, in the time he’d been gone Mycroft had done something Greg never thought he’d see.

Mycroft had made tea.

Greg stared at the mug waiting on the coffee table. It was gently steaming and even though he couldn’t see the colour from across the room, he’d bet his ass it was exactly as he took it. He didn’t move, eyes shifting to Mycroft. He’d taken the liberty of seating himself in the armchair and he must have had his polite face on because Greg knew it was bloody uncomfortable. Much as he wanted to keep ignoring Mycroft, that mug of tea was tempting.

_It’s a bribe so you’ll listen to him._

Though it might be, at least he’d get a cuppa out of it. Greg moved cautiously over to the sofa. He could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him as he lowered himself to the edge of the seat and reached for his tea. The first sip proved him right. It didn’t surprise him that Mycroft would know how he took his tea, but he’d taken the initiative to make it and that was worth a few moments of his time.

Greg wrapped his hands around the mug. The small outburst against Mycroft had been the only flare of energy he had, and he felt himself sink into apathy again. His body felt heavy, his eyes unfocussed. Mycroft didn’t say anything, and Greg wondered why he was still here. The possibility that his tea was doctored in some way crossed his mind but he didn’t even care.

_What would it matter?_

Greg had no idea how long he sat there, but finally Mycroft’s voice broke the silence again.

“Your tea will soon be cold.”

Greg blinked as the words filtered in. He’d forgotten he was even holding tea as his mind had drifted away. It took a second before he felt the shape of his hands around the mug. The idea of drinking the tea didn’t even cross his mind, and he lowered it to the coffee table. His palms were warm when he brought his hands together again.

“Why are you here?”

Greg had asked that question of Mycroft before. It was sometimes accompanied by a wry grin and a twist in his gut, or a tired sigh. This time it stood alone, flat and dull with no energy. Greg wanted information. He didn’t want to half-flirt, or make jokes or play words games. He just wanted to know, and he directed the question to the mug.

“Why did I not fuck off,” Mycroft amended the question.

Greg nodded. He was still looking at the mug. There was too much energy and connection and personal risk in looking at Mycroft. So he studied the mug, the curls of steam long gone, as he waited for Mycroft to answer, or not.

He was not short of time.

“John has expressed concern,” Mycroft said delicately.

The comment inspired exactly no reaction. Greg protested the truth of Mycroft’s statement in his head, but the effort required to say it aloud was too much.

_To who? About what? I assume you mean me. I assume you mean all…this. I assume you and John have united in your mutual concern for Sherlock. I assume you need me to do something for you._

“John has expressed concern about your…mental health,” Mycroft extrapolated.

_Ah. I can’t help him if I’m not at work._

Still not reacting. Still not enough energy to have this conversation.

This time when the silence rang out Greg couldn’t bear it. The silence itself wasn’t bad, but it was different with Mycroft present, and he had no more patience with it. Greg was used to silence after the last days, but that was empty silence, and this was not. Mycroft took up space, his presence extending beyond his actual body.

It was disconcerting.

“What do you want?”

Another question Greg had delivered, another markedly different inflection. Or more accurately, a distinct lack of inflection.

Information, not connection.

Greg expected Mycroft to take his time considering the question as he so often did. He was aware of his breathing, lungs expanding in slow motion as the time dragged on. He wasn’t sure how long it took; even the number of breaths was lost as he forgot to count.

“I am also concerned,” Mycroft said.

This was the statement at which Greg looked up. He’d barely registered the words before he was looking into calm grey eyes. Mycroft hadn’t moved since Greg drew himself into his mug of tea. His fingers rested against the arm of his chair and Greg was irrationally fascinated by them until his words finally sank in.

_I am also concerned._

“Sherlock,” Greg said dully.

Mycroft frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

Greg blinked, the single word having drawn significantly on his energy. He drew a deep breath. “Sherlock,” he said again.

The frown deepened, and Greg sat back. Mycroft’s brain would figure it out. He didn’t have to explain. It would probably sound wrong if he said it anyway.

“You believe I’m here for Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

Greg blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time Mycroft had asked a question to which he could have deduced the answer.

“Yeah,” he said. He was pretty sure the light had faded outside; the lamp was now casting more shadows than it was banishing. As though he read Greg’s mind, Mycroft stood up and extended one finger to turn on the light. It flooded the room and Greg blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bothered turning the light on. Usually the TV sufficed, or he fell asleep before the sun dropped below the rooftops. He blinked again, eyes adjusting as Mycroft hesitated before changing direction and seating himself carefully on the edge of the sofa. Beside Greg.

“I am not here for the benefit of my brother,” Mycroft said quietly. He wasn’t looking at Greg; they were sitting close but neither had turned to face the other. Greg’s heart was pounding, and he blinked at the rings on the coffee table as he waited for more from Mycroft.

_Keep going._

“I am not here to ask for something,” Mycroft said.

Greg wanted to raise a disbelieving eyebrow, but it was too much effort. Instead he simply looked flatly at Mycroft, waiting for whatever else it was he wanted to say.

_Say whatever you want and go. Leave me to wallow._

Greg wondered briefly what Mycroft would have to say in order to make him believe he was there for something other than Sherlock. He had no idea, so he just waited, watching as Mycroft sat calmly before him. He was in professional mode, at least to some degree; his expression was bland, but Greg had enough experience of him to know that behind it his mind was working fast.

“Might I speak frankly?”

Greg blinked at the question. It was not what he’d expected to hear, but he summoned the energy to nod.

“When you first encountered my brother, you were subject to an extensive background check. Both professional and personal.”

Greg nodded. He couldn’t say when the thought had first occurred to him, but it was certainly not a surprise to hear it confirmed.

Mycroft shifted, a nervous action that struck Greg as unusual, though it took a second for it to register, by which time he’d started to speak again. “I have never needed to discuss any of the information with you until now.” He drew a deep breath. “If I was not aware of your previous relationships with men, I would not have the courage to address this with you.”

Greg could hear him couching his nerves in formal language and idly wondered what it was Mycroft was so reluctant to say.

“What is it, Mycroft?” he asked. It was too complicated, trying to figure out what Mycroft was saying. Something about his previous relationships with men? Greg had no idea what that meant.

“You may not consider yourself desirable at this moment in your life,” Mycroft said, and Greg thought he was going to continue but he did not. The personal comment struck a shard of surprise in Greg. It was the first emotional reaction he’d had other than the dull pulse of despair from earlier, and a burst of energy at the earnest expression on Mycroft’s face.

“You’re kidding,” Greg said, the scepticism in his voice barely enough to convey what he felt. “A broken, out-of-shape poor sleeper who drinks too much, smokes too much and puts too much into his work? I’m a real catch. Who wouldn’t want a piece of this?” He raised one hand, but it was too much to hold it out there and it soon dropped back to the sofa beside him.

“I would,” Mycroft said. The words weren’t loud, but their meaning was as a thunderclap in Greg’s head.

“Bullshit,” Greg said reflexively, though his eyes were unable to leave Mycroft, automatically assessing his expression, body language and mannerisms. Nothing in his demenour indicated he was lying, but if anyone could lie convincingly, it was Mycroft Holmes. His cheeks were pink, and embarrassment flashed in his eyes. Another shift of his weight, and to Greg’s astonishment the long legs uncrossed as Mycroft rose only to slide closer to Greg on the sofa.

“If I might rephrase your assessment of yourself,” Mycroft said, and from this close Greg could see the expression on his face was not as smoothly uninformative as Greg had thought. His eyes moved a little too much for him to be entirely calm, and the slight crease between his eyebrows marked the effort he was putting into keeping his voice level.

Slowly Greg felt his heart speed up as a whisper of something skittered down his spine. Not quite belief, it was more like hope, the slim possibility that Mycroft might be correct. Or at least, not entirely incorrect. He felt himself waiting, wondering how Mycroft would reframe his words.

“A hard-working, compassionate man, wounded by the poor treatment of his previous partner, understandably turning to damaging support mechanisms in order to function.”

Greg bit back his immediate burst of disbelief. Instead he studied Mycroft’s face. His expression was determined but calm, eyes waiting on Greg as he thought through Mycroft’s words.

“That’s a pretty generous way of putting it,” Greg said eventually.

“No less exaggerated than yours,” Mycroft replied. “Though in the other direction, of course.”

Greg blinked. He didn’t think his words were that exaggerated. It was a negative assessment, that was true, but there wasn’t all that much positive to focus on.

_Wounded…_

“You think I’m wounded?” The words slipped out before Greg could stop them. He couldn’t remember anyone actually putting it like that before. Verbalising Greg’s pain so viscerally. Even John, with his sympathetic eyes, had used careful euphemisms. _Finding things difficult. Time to sort some things out. Maybe talk to someone. Professionally._

The frown had deepened, and Mycroft addressed his comments to his folded hands. “Again, I must apologise. My knowledge of your life exceeds what you have told me. I was,” he hesitated, “aware of the difficulties in your previous relationship, possibly before you were.” He winced. “I was not sure how to share this knowledge with you without causing offense.”

“You knew?” Greg asked. “Hang on, you still had me under observation then?”

He hadn’t met Amy until he’d known Sherlock several years.

“I did,” Mycroft replied, still looking uncomfortable. “I used the excuse of your ongoing relationship with Sherlock, but it was for a more personal reason.”

“What?” Greg said. His fingers were gripping the cushion beneath him.

_Personal reason?_

Without looking, Mycroft’s hand reached over to settle on Greg’s, as light and tentative as anything. His fingerprints barely grazed Greg’s hand and yet the weight of his action was enormous.

“Mycroft?” The name fell from his lips without a plan, astonishment colouring the sound.

Mycroft didn’t look up. The moment stretched out, Greg hardly breathing as he waited. He had no idea what he expected, or wanted – his brain had been completely derailed by Mycroft’s touch. What did it mean?

_What does it mean?_

The waiting was interminable, but finally, _finally_ Greg heard Mycroft draw a long, shaky breath before speaking in a low voice.

“You may not consider yourself desirable at this moment in your life,” Mycroft said, and Greg recognised his words from earlier, except that this time he continued. His fingers spasmed on Greg’s hand as he added, “but you should be aware, I do.”

“You do…what?” Greg asked blankly.

“I do consider you desirable,” Mycroft said, the pink flush spreading in a rush up his face and neck. “In truth, I have done so for a long time.”

The shock rolled through Greg with the words. There was no way to misinterpret this. He asked the first question that came to his mind.

“Since when?”

“The beginning,” Mycroft admitted.

_The beginning._

“The beginning?” Greg asked blankly. Before he’d even met Amy. Before everything had fallen apart so badly. He felt the frown form as the words slowly formed into a new idea.

“Still?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asked.

“Still?” Greg repeated. When Mycroft didn’t reply he pulled strength from somewhere to add, “You still…even after everything that’s happened. Since then.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. The silence allowed his pulse to roar in Greg’s ears. “If I might be frank, I have noticed the change in your circumstances. As I mentioned earlier, I have not been able to determine how best to bring up such a personal topic in our conversations.”

Greg nodded mutely.

“I am here today not for my brother, or myself,” Mycroft said. “I am here because of my concern for you.”

“Why are you here?” Greg asked, then realised how that might be interpreted. “I mean, what made you come today?”

“My observations have sparked concern,” Mycroft admitted. “I received a report that you had not been seen for a number of days.”

“So you thought breaking in to watch me sleep might be a good plan?” Greg asked. There was no malice in his voice, though the disbelief was audible.

“I first contacted…several people,” Mycroft admitted. “John had been observed to arrive and leave in a short period of time. He confirmed you had sent him a text message, however I needed to see for myself.”

“See for yourself?”

“That you were alright,” Mycroft replied.

Greg blinked again, trying to get his brain to summarise the important parts of this conversation.

_Mycroft’s interested in me. Has been for a while. He thought I was in trouble and came personally to check on me._

_Jesus._

Greg swallowed. He had no idea what to do with this information. Why was Mycroft telling him this?

“I don’t…not believe you,” Greg said, the words difficult to shape as he tried to find the right combination, “but I don’t understand how you can…feel that way. Right now. About…me.”

His ability to form sentences trailed off until he stopped, wondering how Mycroft would respond.

“Forgive me if this is incorrect,” Mycroft said, “but I get the impression you don’t feel you are worthy of,” he paused and Greg wondered what he was going to say instead of the word that filled the space, “care.”

Greg nodded a single jerky nod, shame flooding his face with heat.

“I am not experienced in these matters, but I don’t believe it is a matter of worthiness. I do not look at your financial situation, or your previous relationships, or your physical condition and make a judgement about whether I should care for you or not.”

Greg’s mouth dropped open as he made a leap to Mycroft’s next words.

“I see those things, but they do not change how I feel.”

The words pounded with his pulse in Greg’s head.

_She sees me and she loves me anyway._

“They don’t?” Greg whispered.

“They do not,” Mycroft replied. “I admire how determinedly you continued pour effort into your work despite the…poor nature of your relationship. As for your methods of coping, I have been known to drink and smoke far more than my doctor would advise. None of us are perfect.”

Greg didn’t reply for a long time, emotions swirling inside too fast for him to capture and examine them.

“You used the word broken to describe yourself,” Mycroft continued, “but I preferred wounded. Either way,” he pulled in a deep breath, visibly fortifying himself, “you should know I believe you are capable of being healed, or ‘fixed’ if you prefer the term.”

“And you…what’s your role in that?” Greg asked.

“I would not impose on you,” Mycroft said. “I am able to connect you with people who can offer extensive treatment in a range of therapies-”

He broke off as Greg’s hand landed over his, more heavily than Greg had planned but with added desperation weighing it down.

“No,” Greg said quietly. “What about you, Mycroft?”

“Me?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes,” Greg replied. He thought for a moment, trying to bring his mind into some semblance of order. “I’m grateful for your offer, don’t get me wrong.” He saw disappointment flash in Mycroft’s face before he nodded, but Greg kept talking before he could remove himself. “But I would much prefer a more personal approach.”

“Personal?” Mycroft whispered.

“Instead of professional,” Greg said. “Or maybe as well as.” He tried to laugh but it burbled up into more of a sob. “If I’m wounded it’s pretty deep.”

The ragged breath he drew after the sob lead into another, and Greg closed his eyes, wishing he could push back the emotions but they were too strong. As his face dropped into his free hand he tugged the other from Mycroft’s, covering his tears. He felt Mycroft shift and thought for a moment he was leaving; it was only when an arm settled tentatively around his shoulders Greg felt the relief of his torso pressing to his. Greg turned towards it, pressing his face into the shoulder attached to the arm. It tightened and was joined by its pair and Greg let himself go.

_He sees me._


End file.
